Second Nature
by thisislandgirl
Summary: In fact, with all the hits Sam had taken, hitting the wall, wrenching his arm, the blow to his face, the bullet wound and the subsequent crash to the hard floor, he’d never once looked in discomfort, much less pain. POST 3.11 Mystery Spot Hurt!Sam


**Second Nature (1/1)**

**Fandom:** Supernatural

**Characters:** Sam and Dean

**Rating: R**

**Word Count: **5,021

**Warnings:** blood/gore, violence, language, Spoilers for 3.11 Mystery Spot

**Disclaimer:** I don't own the boys, just borrowing them for the time being.

**Summary:** In fact, with all the hits Sam had taken, hitting the wall, wrenching his arm, the blow to his face, the bullet wound and the subsequent crash to the hard floor, he'd never once looked in discomfort, much less pain.

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**SECOND NATURE**

* * *

It was second nature now for Sam, to be in harms way, to take the brunt of his adversaries' anger and aggression. Not Dean. Dean wasn't supposed to be hit or harmed or even be near the monster they were hunting down. Sam always made sure of it. With finer tuned instincts, the kind one can only hone when fighting alone, he could easily pick up the monsters trail, making sure Dean headed in the opposite direction.

But not tonight. No, tonight Dean had to be difficult. Three weeks they'd been back on the road, and tonight, when up against another demon, Dean had chosen to stick to Sam's side like glue.

"Enough of this splitting up, Sam." Dean's voice had been hard and firm as he spun around to face his brother. "For three weeks you won't let me go anywhere, not even the diner bathroom, alone. But you're all fine and dandy with me going it alone on hunt? What's going on here, Sam?!"

Sam had just turned away, eyes cast down, cheeks burning with embarrassment and shame. It was true and he knew it all too well, but just couldn't chance it again. The sight of Dean lying on the cool pavement, blood flooding out of his chest to pool below him always flashed in his mind the moment Dean was out of arm's length. He was helpless to stop it. But Dean was a soldier, could hold his own in a fair fight, and definitely when it came to something supernatural.

So Sam had relented, taking up the lead. Sure he was getting better, willing to compromise, but there was no way in hell Dean was going to walk into that room first. Whatever was waiting for them would have to go through Sam first if it wanted a piece of Dean. And it would have one _hell_ of a fight on its hands then.

As it turned out, the demon hadn't been waiting in the room for them. Or down the long hallway. Or in any of the room just off the hallway. It appeared that the demon wasn't even in the old house at all. And if it weren't for the niggling fear in the back of his mind, the spine tingling, hair raising feeling that crawled over his skin, Sam would be inclined to believe it. But Sam had learned to trust his instincts, and right now they were telling him the demon was just biding its time until it could strike.

He holed them up in the room he found most secure. No windows. Only one door leading in or out. Very few furnishings with the sturdiest looking walls and ceiling. Then Sam had set to work, setting down salt lines to keep the demon out and carving a large devil's trap into the dusty wooden floor boards. It took him a while, and it sure wasn't the greatest he'd ever done it, but it would have to do. Sam was just pulling the edge of the carpet over the carvings when he heard a thump out in the hallway.

Long fingers reached out and snagged the barrel of his shotgun from its resting place beside the duffle bag, his other hand curling around his flask of holy water. "You ready, Dean?" he called quietly over his shoulder, then turned to find the room vacant.

"Dean? Dean!" His voice bounced and carried down the hallway, but it was met with silence.

The hunter in him told him to stay put, that the situation was too dangerous. Dean had stepped out of the protected area and allowed the demon to set up the perfect trap to draw Sam out of hiding. But the stronger, more insistent voice in his head screamed that Dean was his brother, that he could be hurt or worse and it was Sam's duty to go and save him. And without a second thought, Sam stepped out of the room, letting his heels drag just the tiniest bit as he crossed the threshold, breaking the salt line as he went.

A few feet at the end of the hall, Dean was against the wall, back and limbs and head all flush with the surface in a decidedly not comfortable or even natural way. And judging from the grumbling and cursing spilling from his brother's mouth, he was more agitated than hurt. Sam could see the red mark on his cheek and the faint outline of blood on his lip, but other than that he appeared fine.

Satisfied that his brother was safe for the time being, Sam started to turn around to locate the demon when he came suddenly into contact with the nearest wall. His face and chest slammed hard against it, the air rushing out of his lungs and a weight pressed in from behind. His gun had dropped from his fingers when he had hit the wall, but the flask of holy water was still tucked in the sleeve of his left hand. Adjusting his arm slightly, trying to coax it out from its hidden position, he almost had it palmed when breath ghosted over his ear. The demon leaned in, taking his left arm captive and pinning it harshly against his back, the flask falling away.

"Hello, Sam." The feminine voice whispered, honeyed words dripping with as much sarcasm as sweetness. "I wouldn't do that if I were you, it might just make me mad and forget that I have your brother's precious life in my hands."

Sam could hear the smile in her voice as she tightened her near death-grip on his arm. The pain was white hot as it traveled from his wrist up to his shoulder, zinging with electricity as it bounced off his nerves; his fingers gone numb after loosing circulation. But he didn't make a sound, only tried to turn his head to get a better look at his foe.

He was surprised to find that he could actually move, that she hadn't seized up his body like she had for Dean. Whatever her reason, Sam was determined to use it to his advantage. He only had one chance to gain the upper hand and he wasn't about to let it slip away.

"Yeah, well now you have two lives. Think of us as a captive audience. What do you want?" He used his voice, his meaningless words to cover up his actions. No, he really didn't care who she was or what she wanted from the Winchester brothers. It didn't really matter because once Sam was free of her grip he would send her ass straight back to hell.

As he spoke, he shift the weight off of his right foot slightly, just enough to slide it back a fraction of an inch, just until he could feel her leg behind his. Perfect. Swallowing thickly, he took a deep breath and quickly snaked his long leg around hers and pulled sharply, knocking her knee out from under her. Her grip on his arm jerked it down, the joint popping and groaning in protest, but Sam wouldn't be cowed. He spun around, arm still in her grip, and caught her in the side again with his booted foot.

Her grip on both him and Dean loosened as she fell to the ground, human body out of breath. But the demon inside was still raging. She tried to lunge up, but Sam already had the holy water opened and splashed a good dose straight in her face. She shrieked, steam hissing off her face as she backed up a few steps.

Sam only spared a moment to look over to Dean, watched him as he gave a thumbs up as he pulled himself off the floor. Then Sam turned back to the demon just in time to catch her freakishly powerful, yet tiny fist, right in the jaw. It rocketed his head to the side, but he didn't stumble a step. He ducked the next one aimed at him, this time ready for it, and used his relatively close position to the floor to snatched up the rifle he'd dropped.

One blast full of rock salt to the chest and she was flying back into the center of the room, passed the broken salt lines, landing just on the edge of the carpet. Sam growled in frustration and stalked into the room and over to her prone form, not giving her a moment to recoup from the painful blast before he was giving her a rough kick, her body rolling fully onto the carpet, and into the center of the devil's trap.

Perfect.

He tossed his shot gun to the side, his eyes following Dean as he came into the room and stood a few feet to the left of him. Sam whipped the flask at her again as she charged at Dean and came up short. This time she cowered away, curling in on her self for a moment, hissing and wheezing, before she straightened, a small pistol leveled at Dean's head.

Sam only had a split second to react, but he didn't need more than that. He lunged for Dean, long arms shoving his brother out of the way as the gun was fired. Dean landed a few feet away his, feet getting trapped beneath his brother's chest when they both came crashing to the floor. It wasn't until he looked up that he saw how close he was, mere inches away, from cracking his head on the wooden desk in the corner of the room. And for once, he was glad his brother was aware of his own freakish strength.

Sam felt the impact of the bullet in his abdomen, but it was nothing more than a faint pinch of pain before the adrenaline swallowed it whole. Even as he crashed to the floor, Dean's boot forcing the air from his lungs, he was reciting the exorcism ritual.

_Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus, omnis satanica potestas, omnis incursio infernalis adversarii, omnis legio, omnis congregatio et secta diabolica, in nomine et virtute Domini Nostri Jesu Christi, eradicare et effugare a Dei Ecclesia, ab animabus ad imaginem Dei conditis ac pretioso divini Agni sanguine redemptis._

It wasn't the first time he performed the ritual without his father's journal for guidance, and he knew it wouldn't be the last. But it was the first time Dean had ever witnessed it. And as he dragged himself up off the floor, a black cloud burst from the girl's mouth, her back arching, body convulsing as it forced the demon out. He shrugged his jacket back into the place, inwardly wincing at the throbbing pull of his arm and the concentrated ball of pain in his wrist. He quickly zipped it up part way to cover up the blood before his brother could see, before he stepped inside circle to check on the girl.

And just as he suspected, he found no pulse. With the force of his blows combined with the force with which the demon was expelled, he would have been highly shocked to find her still breathing. A deep sigh left his body, the tension of the hunt flooding out of him on the tail end it as he gently closed her eyes.

When he turned back, Dean was staring after him, leaning against the wall in forced nonchalance. The barely visible edge to his brother's cool indifference told Sam all he needed to know. Dean was _pissed_. And while the old Sam would have had it out with his brother right then and there, not wanting to let the anger and feelings fester more than necessary, this Sam just turned away.

His hands were steady as he packed up the guns and the salt and the small knife he had used to carve the devil's trap. He eased the small pistol out of the girl's hand and tossed it into their bag, he'd destroy it later, along with the cartridge casings laying on the floor. Once he was sure their presence could no longer be detected in the old house, he turned back to Dean, nodding his head towards the door.

The hour drive back to the motel was made in relative silence, only broken by the passing of another car on the road or a heavy sigh from one of the car's occupants. Only once they had pulled up to the motel did Dean finally break the icy silence.

"Go grab a shower and start cleaning the guns. I'm gonna go grab us something to eat. I'll be back in a bit."

And Dean only waited long enough for Sam to grab the duffel bag out of the back of the car before he pulled out of the parking lot, two red tail lights disappearing into the darkness in the opposite direction of the nearest diner. Sam knew his brother needed time and space to think, to work it all out. It wasn't like Sam had exactly been forth coming with any information at all regarding their stay in Broward County, but it still stung.

Once in the room, Sam dropped the duffel on his bed, shedding his jacket and unstained outer shirt before snatching up the first aid kit out of the bag and heading into the bathroom. He purposefully left the door half open so he could hear if Dean returned, though not seriously expecting to see his brother for at least another hour.

It came as quite a shock then when Dean came in fifteen minutes later. Sam had cut his bloody shirt off and had already cleaned the wound, the towel he had tucked into the front of his jeans, spilling onto the edge of the sink was now tinged pink with blood and peroxide. He'd sterilized the tweezers to the best of his ability, letting them steep in alcohol for a few minutes while he readied the other items he would need. Needle, threaded and ready lay off to the side, needle straight from a hypodermic packet. He laid out a few extra squares of gauze and tape, closer at hand because the wound just wouldn't quit bleeding.

He had just slid the tweezers into the wound when Dean slammed the door to the room closed. Sam jerked his head up, his hand involuntarily jerking around, digging deeper into the wound, and met his brother's gaze in the mirror. Three strides was all it took for Dean to cross the room, hand reached out before him to push the bathroom door the rest of the way open.

They both ignored the way it rattle on its hinges as it slammed into the wall when Dean came to a grinding halt just a foot from Sam, his eyes wide in disbelief, his hand shaking as he reached for his brother's arm, stilling its movements. It took Dean a whole lot of effort to force away the nausea and finally drag his eyes up to meet Sam's.

"Jesus Christ Sam." It wasn't as forceful as he wanted it, coming out more scared and brittle. But Sam read the message loud and clear. "Why didn't you tell me? What the hell were you thinking?!" Then Dean spotted the rest of the needed equipment laid out all within a short arm's reach, sterilized and gleaming coldly in the bathroom's florescent light. He swallowed hard as he gently guided Sam's hand away from his body, his stomach flipping at the little popping sound the tweezers made as they finally slid free from the wound. "You were planning on doing this yourself? But Sam you can't …"

And that's when he realized Sam's hands weren't shaking. He didn't even appear to be in pain. At all. In fact, with all the hits Sam had taken, hitting the wall, wrenching his arm, the blow to his face, the bullet wound and the subsequent crash to the hard floor, he'd never once looked in discomfort, much less pain. And Dean knew from personal experience that some of those hurt, the blow to the face, hitting the wall, getting thrown to the floor.

Dean shook his head, trying to clear it. Questions streamed through his mind, jumping to conclusions before the answers were even complete. But he pushed them aside and guided his brother to sit on the toilet. It wasn't until he was finally seated that Sam seemed to slip out of his shock and back into the determined mode he'd seen relentlessly over the passed three weeks.

"I can do this Dean. I'll be out in a few minutes, then you can have the shower all to yourself." Sam's voice was oddly calm and easy as the directed the bloody forceps back towards his body.

"Whoa! Easy there Sammy." Dean snatched away the tweezers and held them at arm's length away from Sam like it was a knife and Sam a curious toddler.

"Come on, Dean. I'm fine. Let me just stitch it up and I'll be good as new."

"No can do, Sammy. Give me a minute and I'll patch you up. Just need to wash my hands and …"

"Your hands are shaking." Sam stated it matter of factly, but his eyes were a curious mix of confusion and annoyance. "Mine aren't. I'll be faster."

And while Sam did have a point, there was no way in hell Dean was conceding to it. Instead he just dropped the tweezers back into the cup of alcohol and turned to the sink, washing his hands thoroughly, twice, before he dumped a little alcohol over them and patted them dry with a towel. Sam was still staring at him when he turned back, eyes waiting patiently for an answer Dean wasn't ready to give.

He sighed deeply as he kneeled in front of his brother. "Look, Sam. It's my job okay. It's my job to take care of you, to patch you up. Just … let me." He didn't wait for an answer though.

Turning back to the sink, he picked up a few gauze pads, wetting them with more peroxide, before he laid eyes on the wound. He pushed Sam back so he was leaning against the wall, giving Dean better access to the wound. He gently dabbed away the blood, carefully poking at the edges before pulling the skin around the taut so the wound was opened to its full extent.

At first all he could see was blood, but when he wiped the small passage clear, he could finally see it. The bullet's silver jacket gleaming from it's embedded place in Sam's soft, pink flesh. The wound wasn't deep, not as deep as it could have been, the bullet barely penetrating the muscle wall. Small caliber fired from an odd angle, penetrating the layers of Sam's clothing, entering the body at an odd angle. That was probably the only reason Sam was still alive and breathing on his own and not drowning in blood at this point.

It took him four tries before the tweezers could fully grip the bullet and slid it out of Sam's body. A neat, tight row of seven stitches followed another thorough cleaning of the wound before Dean secured a wad of gauze over the wound. And all the while Sam hadn't even flinched. It unnerved to Dean to no extent to see his brother so stoic in the face of undoubted agony. And while he wanted, _needed_ answers, he would let his brother rest for a while.

He checked over Sam's face and then carefully moved his arm, testing its limits before deciding just a sprain. Nothing a wrap and Tylenol and ice wouldn't cure, thankfully. Then and only then, when Dean was sure his brother had no other injuries, wasn't bleeding or bruised or pained in any other place, did he let his brother up from his seat on the toilet, watching him walk with perfectly gaited steps out the bed and his bag of clothes lay scattered on the floor.

* * *

After cleaning up the bathroom and grabbing ice from the machine outside, Dean finally entered the room to see Sam sitting on the side of his bed, eyes blank as he stared at the wall in front of him. He'd changed into a loose t-shirt and his sweatpants but he hadn't touched his dinner or the pain pills sitting next to the bottle of water. Nor had he made any move to turn down the covers and crawl into bed.

It was only as Dean drew nearer that he could see the fine tremors in his hands. His face was blank and the rest of his body was seemingly relaxed. But his hands, they trembled and jerked where they sat on Sam's knees. The quivering increasing until it was shivering up his arms, his shoulders, down his back, until it engulfed his whole body. It was unnerving how quick they spread and how silent and blank Sam's face stayed.

Dean eased himself down onto the floor in front of Sam, his hands coming to rest atop his brother's. Sam's chilled fingers curled around his own, the only outward sign that Sam was even still in there. But Dean would take it. He squeezed back before he ran his hand soothingly up and down Sam's arms, then up, gently cupping his face before they skated down his back, pulling Sam into a full body hug.

"Hey. Easy now, Sam. Just take a breath for me, all right. Everything's fine." His voice was a hushed whisper, lips brushing Sam's temple as he spoke. And it took a good couple minutes, of more whispers and reassurances, before Sam's body slowed its trembling. It didn't stop all together, but Dean would take what he could get at the moment.

Reluctantly, he pulled back from Sam until he could look into his brother's eyes, hands still gripping the back of Sam's biceps. "You okay now?" He ducked his head, following Sam's gaze, searching for an answer he wasn't given. "All right, let's get you something for the pain and get you tucked in for the night. Sound good?" He was just standing up to retrieve the pain pills when Sam turned his gaze up to Dean, eyes shining big and bright with something close to desperation and pain.

"Can't," he whispered. "I can't." His gaze hardened and he ceased his trembling, like his mind was flipping a switch. That's when Dean recognized it, Sam was back in full hunter mode, walls so high and thick nothing could penetrate them. It scared and shock Dean to see this because _this_ right here, that was _not _how his Sam acted.

"Need to be awake, alert. They'll just make me groggy." Sam started to stand from the bed but Dean was there in an instant, pushing him back down.

"But you're in pain, Sam. Everything's fine now, we're safe for the night. You need to rest, to heal." Dean kept his hands firmly set on Sam's shoulders, giving them a tight squeeze as he spoke. When it looked like Sam was about to protest, Dean met Sam's eyes again. "Hey, it's my job, remember? I'll be right here, everything's fine."

Sam just ducked his head down, nodding in acquiescence. Dean handed him the pills, watching as Sam swallowed them followed by the bottle of water. Satisfied that Sam wasn't gonna try anything funny, like spitting them back out, Dean nudged Sam back further on the bed until he was leaning against the headboard. He gently pulled Sam's unresisting left arm towards him and began to wrap a bandage around it.

"Don't Dean. It's fine." Sam's voice sounded resigned, and slightly annoyed, but he made no move to pull his arm away.

"It _will_ be fine with a few days rest. Now quit your yammering and let me work." His mouth quirked into a smile as spoke, pulling the bandage taut to stabilize the joint. When he was finished, he laid one bag of ice across Sam's wrist, propping it up on pillow before he situated the other bag of ice, wrapped in a towel, on Sam's injured shoulder. Sam glared at him, wanting to protest, but Dean silenced him with a look. _Don't._

Silence reigned over the room then as Dean pulled out a change of clothes and ducked into the bathroom to take a quick shower, leaving the door ajar. He cleaned the guns they used, checked over the knife, and even checked out the pistol the demon had used on Sam. He packed all their bags up, checked the salt lines and put their forgotten dinners in the small fridge before he ran out of things to do.

An hour had passed but Sam hadn't moved. He just sat on the bed and stared at the wall in front of him, face blank. But Dean could tell by the look in Sam's eyes that he was running things through in his head. He was tempted to just turn out the lights, knowing that was the only way to get Sam to sleep, but he just couldn't. Not yet. He needed answers, and while he never liked to bully his brother into giving up obviously painful information, what he had witnessed tonight had truly scared the shit out of him.

Without a word, he moved over to Sam's bed, gently nudging his brother over an inch or two so he could sit next to him, shoulders knocking, hands brushing, legs flush together. Enough contact to ground them, not enough to crowd. The silence, though still weighted, no longer felt oppressive. Dean slowly turned his head so he was looking directly at Sam when he finally started talking.

"What happened back there Sam?"

A sigh, deep and heavy like the weight of the world was settling upon Sam's chest, was his only answer for a long moment. Then Sam turned to meet him, eyes clear and looking so much like the little brother Dean knew it caused something in his chest to clench painfully. But he wouldn't look away. Sam turned his head away, eyes dropping to his arm resting in his lap as he spoke.

"You died, Dean. And I had to watch."

Dean was about to tell Sam he knew that part, remember Sam grudgingly expanding on that information the day after they got out of the Trickster's trap, but there was something in Sam's voice that halted him. It was a note of despair, of pure and total anguish at the thought. He expected a tear to come trailing down Sam's cheek any moment, but it stayed vacant.

"You died on Wednesday, after we got out of the time loop. Cal tried to rob you in the motel parking lot, got jumpy and shot you in the chest." Things were suddenly clicking together for Dean, why Sam wouldn't leave him alone in the face of people, but would split with him on a hunt. Sam no longer had trust in ordinary people.

"I held you, thinking it was just another one of the Trickster's game. But I didn't wake up." The last was spoken in a whisper as a lone tear slipped down Sam's cheek, sliding away to land on his t-shirt. "I didn't know what to do. I was suppose to wake up." Sam's watery gaze snapped to Dean for a moment for emphasis before he turned away again. "I was on my own now.

"I took you to Bobby's, buried you next to Dad's ashes, then spilt town before Bobby woke the next morning." Sam wiped his face, trying to dry the wetness there, but it just made another tear slip down his cheek. "I hunted alone, learned how to take care of everything by myself, the car, the guns, patching up wounds, all of it. I had no choice."

Dean swallowed hard, trying to imagine what life had to have been like for Sam. He remembered his own three days without Sam by his side, how he just sat in the abandoned house, drinking whiskey and spending hours talking to Sam's cold corpse. Sam had moved on when Dean couldn't. And even though it had taken a huge part of the Sam he knew and loved away, he was proud of the kid.

"How long?" He prided himself on the fact that his voice was rock steady, if not a little hoarse around the edges.

"Six months." Sam shifted slightly, first pulling away from Dean's touch, then leaning into it further, needing that solid comfort it offered. "I hunted, tracked the Trickster for six months before Bobby called and said he had a lead. He'd found a summoning ritual for the Trickster." Sam's voice trailed off, eyes going dim as he lost himself in the memory of that day.

"It wasn't Bobby though. It had been the Trickster all along, said he was trying to teach me a lesson." Sam looked up at him then, eyes brimming with tears too stubborn to fall. "He said he was trying to show me what life would be like without you."

The next few tears fell in the silence as Dean tried to absorb the information and Sam tried to hold his emotions in check. Dean sniffed, trying to keep his emotions in check as he pulled Sam into a hug, arms wrapping fiercely around his brother as he held him tight. "I'm not going anywhere Sammy. I told you that and I mean it. We'll figure a way out of this, okay? I won't leave you alone again."

Sam just nodded his head, letting the tears fall uninhibited for the first time in what felt like a year to Sam. He returned his brother's embrace and soaked up the comfort offered. And with the tension and pain seeping out of his body, he felt himself slowly nodding off, but Dean never let go of him.

It was in Dean's nature to protect his brother, and if that meant holding him while he slept fitfully for the first time in a while, then so be it.

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_**The End**_

**A/N:** I know many have explored this aspect of the brother's relationship and specifically this character aspect of Sam. But it was always something I wanted to explore myself, and after watching "Mystery Spot" again last night, it demanded to be written.

I am not an expert in Latin. I got the excorism ritual from SuperWiki

Thanks for reading, feel free to friend the comm if you like what you see. And remember, feedback is always welcome and adored!


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